Wednesday 18 April 2012 18.52 EDT
First published on Wednesday 18 April 2012 18.52 EDT

Dick Clark, who has died suddenly at the age of 82, was like a family member to Americans of all backgrounds – thanks both to his long-running dance show "American Bandstand", and because of his annual New Year's Eve telecasts. We watched him, from when I was a child sitting with my mother, as Clark's rock'n'roll specials replayed the great hits of the 1950s and 1960s: Chubby Checker, Dion and the Belmonts, Danny and the Juniors, Fabian … Those early popular music heroes became mine, too, because of Clark's shows.

Later, I'd be glued to the television on Saturday afternoons absorbing Clark's every word about music, dance, fashion. I admired the New York-meets-Philly cool way he could navigate any situation, even the unexpected – like the episode when new star Prince decided to do his entire interview with Clark by flash hand signals, without uttering a single word. Clark didn't miss a beat.

Later still, I understood the vast entertainment power and influence of Dick Clark, that entities like the American Music Awards and "The $25,000 Pyramid" game show were his brainchildren, too. He embraced the nickname "America's oldest teenager" because it meant that Clark would be, prophetically, not only an arbiter of the tastes of young people (long before MTV) but also a pop culture curator who has set the standard for subsequent offspring like Seacrest, Simon Cowell and Nick Cannon. Not bad for someone who had simply wanted to read the news or the weather in his home state of New York, but kept getting rejected because producers just could not take him and that baby face seriously.

That is how Clark wound up on radio, in Philadelphia, in 1956, as rock'n'roll was exploding, emceeing the airwaves version of the WFIL's televised "Bandstand" teen dance program. When the host of the TV side of that show got busted for drunk-driving, Clark got his chance. He turned that local program into a national powerhouse that ran until 1987 with him at the helm.

In between, Clark made a million dollars by the age of 30 – but had his setbacks, too. He was called before Congress on allegations of lining his pockets with payola cash. And he foolishly dissed the Beatles as a novelty act when offered the band before Ed Sullivan. But that was a rare lapse of judgment on his part: virtually every other major star you can name, from the 1950s through the 1980s, either got their big break on "Bandstand", or did early performances there. Buddy Holly, James Brown, Simon and Garfunkel, the Jackson Five, even Madonna. "Bandstand" can even claim credit for launching worldwide dance crazes like the twist.

I met Dick Clark on a whim, a few years before the 2004 stroke that clearly left him debilitated. A Hollywood writing agent asked me who I wanted to meet; almost randomly, I said, "Dick Clark". A week later, there I was – at Clark's Los Angeles office. It had a domestic air, complete with a big shaggy dog and all kinds of nostalgic pop culture artifacts. What I remember was how laid-back and accessible Clark was – and how much he cursed, which was a lot. I was al ittle shocked at first, because we knew Clark for his clean-cut image. This Clark may have cussed like a gangster but he was a complete gentleman otherwise. Somehow, our conversation lighted on two of Clark's favorite artists, Sam Cooke and Jackie Wilson. Clark said he could not understand why a film had yet to be made about Cooke's life, given his genius. And he called Wilson "the greatest performer who ever lived".

I raced back to my hotel room to call my mother and tell her I had met with Dick Clark. She could not believe it. Nothing more came of that meeting. But for one bright California afternoon, the little boy in me had been able to reach inside my television memories and connect with the man who'd touched so many of us.